


Not-So-Permanent Solution

by BloodyAbattoir



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Implied Relationships, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Not A Fix-It, Not Really Character Death, Overdose, Suicide Attempt, Valdemar Is Scary, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 02:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17520743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: The apprentice makes a mistake that nearly proves fatal.  Thankfully, the 'good' doctor is on hand to set things right.





	Not-So-Permanent Solution

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings. Do not read this shit if you're easily suggestible.

When you were sat on your bed with a full bottle of pills to take, you knew it wouldn't be instantaneous. But, you didn't think it would take you forever. 

 

Over an hour later, and you weren't even the least bit sleepy. It was a disappointment, to say the least. And yet, there you were, waiting for life to eventually wink out of existence, when a knock came on the door to your rooms. You ignored it for a moment, but it came again, louder and more insistent this time. Then, a voice, high and scared, calling for you. 

 

Mumbling to yourself, you extracted yourself from the bed, shuffling over to the door.

 

On the other side of it was a servant girl, ringing her hands nervously. "Oh, thank goodness you're still awake! The Quaestor sent me to find you, something about not finishing up some paperwork..." She trailed off. 

 

You smiled at her, waving her off. "I'll go see what they want. Thank you!" The chipper tone to your voice was at direct odds with how you felt inside, but why worry her? She had no part in your actions tonight, aside from being a mild annoyance.

 

You made your way down to the dungeon, the rattling elevator with its distinctive stench escorting you down to the bowels of the palace. As the grille rattled open, the pills you'd taken finally started to hit you. Of course, today of all days would be the day that nothing could or would go right. You could only hope that you could get whatever you needed to get done taken care of in short order, before your boss noticed that anything was amiss. 

 

"Ah yes, Doctor 086, how nice to finally see you. Come back to sign off on those death certificates, have you?" The Quaestor seemed to appear from nowhere. As always, they were proficient in sneaking up on people, specifically you. 

 

You simply nodded and mumbled something to the affirmative, before turning in the direction of your office. 

 

You didn't quite make it all the way there, before you were suddenly jerked by the shoulder and turned around. Your eyes went wide in shock, and you let out a small, terrified squeak of fear as you came uncomfortably close to the head physician of the palace. They gave you a once over, and you knew that they must be noticing your eyes starting to glaze over. 

 

You dropped your gaze, but not quickly enough. Valdemar grabbed your chin with one gloved hand, deceptively strong despite their narrow build, jerking your head up and forcing you to make eye contact. You looked away from them, not liking the direction that this was going, but it was enough. They now knew something was wrong. 

 

"And what exactly did you take?" 

 

You shook your head, a feeble act of denial that anyone could see through. Instead, in front of the Quaestor, you were simply embarrassing yourself with how pathetic your lie was. 

 

"Don't lie to me, dear patient. You don't smell of alcohol, and there isn't any illness currently sweeping the city that would warrant your symptoms. Now, do make this easy and tell me." 

 

Your jaw dropped open, before you forced yourself to shut it again. If you were now being called a patient, as opposed to a doctor, you knew that you were definitely more than in for it. The fact that the green reptilian form in front of you had taken on that tone of voice that they'd used to charm patients into signing away all of their rights during the last plague wasn't helping either. 

 

They heaved a sigh. "Alright, then don't tell me. I'm just going to assume that it was you that was responsible for the missing sedatives from the stock room." 

 

How? No! They weren't supposed to know! You fought your facial features back into a neutral expression, but it was definitely more than enough time. "Ah, so it was you. You see, dear patient, there's something you must know. Despite what you must think, I do care for the doctors under my supervision. After all, do you know how troublesome it is to replace them?" 

 

It was official. You were screwed, at least twice over. In a few hours, you'd likely be desiring death even more than now.

 

"I do keep a close eye on my doctors, and when one starts to exhibit symptoms of mental illness, I watch them even more closely." Large red eyes bored into you, before you felt yourself being dragged bodily into the operating theater. You tried to dig your heels into the ground, struggling to break free from the Quaestor's grasp. You flailed like a dying fish, thrashing around, but it was no use, and you were dragged past the room with the protective gear like a child might drag a stuffed toy. 

 

If you weren't making that side stop in to grab your mask and gloves, then there was a very good chance that you weren't going to make it out of that operating room alive. 

 

"And when I notice that one of them is suddenly acting much happier and carefree, the first thing I do is take stock of the drugs. If the numbers are off, I know who my suspect is." 

 

Fuck. You'd given yourself away, hadn't you. 

 

"Yes, you were so obvious, my little specimen. Pity you've never been warned, that's one of the signs to look for. A sudden change in mood after being depressed and withdrawn for so long? It's practically a glowing sign!" 

 

There. They'd called you a specimen. You were doomed for a vivisection table, no doubt. 

 

They set you down for but a minute. It was enough for you to try to make a break for it, dashing for the door. In your uncoordinated haze, you slammed into the side of one of the tables. Behind you, you could hear the sound of the beetle tank being opened, the dry scuttling of the beetles over each other. It must be even worse. You wouldn't even have the decency of being sacrificed to the greater cause of medical discovery. Instead, you would be just beetle fodder, and not even very good for them at that. 

 

Head swimming, you pulled yourself off the floor, body aching, before lurching away from the beetle tank again. 

 

A few feet away from the door, you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind, picking you up. You let out a howl of fear and panic, clawing at the Quaestor's gloved arms, kicking at their legs, doing anything you could to avoid being physically carried to the beetle tank. 

 

"Now, we're having none of that!" They snapped at you. 

 

"Please, no!" Anything but the beetles. That, undoubtedly, would be the worst way to go, if the screams from patients who were still alive and tipped into the tub had been anything to go by. 

 

"But just an hour ago you wished to die!" 

 

"Not like this!" You yelped, adrenaline helping to give you a sudden boost of clarity, enough to realize how awful things were about to turn out. 

 

"It isn't as if suicide is that much cleaner and less painful. After all, weren't you aware of the side effects of the drugs you stole? You're in that lovely spot where you haven't taken enough for your heart to stop, but your organs will still give in. Oh, they'll melt and bubble and your insides will boil. You'll go out screaming in agony in a week or three. It is a fascinating process to watch, I must admit."

 

All of a sudden, the beetles started to sound like a better alternative. 

 

"You know," Valdemar practically purred into your ear, "there's this new treatment I've been working on. Maybe I won't feed you to the beetles. Maybe I'll try it out on you. So far, all it can or will do is prolong your time on this earth, slow down your organs disintegration. Don't worry, dear experiment, I'll keep you as lucid as possible, so you can tell me every detail." 

 

That, then, was finally enough to make tears slide down your face. Fear and defeat mixed together in a bitter cocktail. You'd just wanted a painless death. Instead, you'd booked yourself a one-way ticket to an indefinite period of suffering. 

 

"But, shockingly, I do like you enough to offer you a choice. If you ask nicely enough, I'll consider putting you out of your misery before things become unbearable." 

 

You were too shocked to answer to that. What could you possibly say to a comment like that, anyway?

 

"Now tell me, how long has it been since you decided to take those pills?" 

 

You kept quiet. Was there such a thing as a correct answer in this case? 

 

A chuckle from up above. They'd expected you to be uncooperative. "Based off your physical symptoms, I'd say an hour or so. This is your lucky night. You were so ignorant, you didn't read the label! If you did, you would've realized you shouldnt take it with food! Slows down the absorption rate you know."

 

Their voice was full of glee. 

 

"There's still time to save you." 

 

You had no time to be shocked before one gloved hand was at your mouth, grabbing your jaw so hard it nearly cracked. 

 

Your hands struggled against the Quaestors other arm trying to break free, but their inhuman strength kept you firmly in place. 

 

The hand on your jaw finally forced your mouth open just wide enough for one impossibly long finger to slide past your lips. The taste of leather and disinfectant filled your mouth. 

 

In a panic, you bit down. Hard. 

 

Behind you, Valdemar let out a choked yelp of pain. Then, you were squeezed so hard one of your ribs let out an audible cracking noise. 

 

"If you cooperate," they hissed ,"this will be over soon. If you don't, I will make certain your last hours are agony." 

 

It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. 

 

Knowing for once when to admit defeat, you let yourself go limp against the arms that held you. The finger in your mouth was promptly removed, and Valdemar inspected it. "Doesn't look like you've punctured my glove. Unpleasant but harmless. Now do behave." 

 

You simply nodded. What more could you say to that? 

 

Their hand was back at your mouth again. 

 

"Open." 

 

This time, you didn't fight. First, one finger, sliding past your tongue, reaching down your throat. The leather was cold against the inside of your mouth as the finger poked carefully at the back of your throat. 

 

You coughed slightly. It was merely annoying, but it was not enough to trigger your gag reflex. The finger in the back of your throat gave a more insistent Jab, and you coughed a bit harder.

 

Valdemar let out a sigh of annoyance, and perhaps frustration. You could have sworn that they murmured something under their breath, most likely about you being difficult, as always. Then, there was a second finger in your mouth, stretching as far down your throat as physically possible. 

 

This now was enough to make you start to gag. Instead of removing their fingers, the Quaestor probed at the back of your throat further. You were starting to feel nauseated, and a wave of bile crawled up the back of your throat. One more twitch of their fingers, and you lurched forward, nearly doubling over at the waist, the contents of your stomach finding their way out of your mouth. It was only Valdemar's arm around your waist that kept you from falling face first into the pit of beetles in front of you. 

 

A wave of vomit splashed down into the stone pit, coating the beetles at the top.  It didn't seem to bother them, or even slow their skittering. They'd doubtlessly eat that too. The liquid sank straight to the bottom, but the solids stayed at the top for a short while longer. There were the chunks that had come from the fish you'd had for dinner, and some stringy green bits that must've been your salad. Mixed in among everything, were perhaps a dozen pills, slightly worn down, edges rounded off by the acid in your stomach. Then, the roiling mass of beetles shifted, and the mess was gone, consumed by the insects. 

 

Behind you, Valdemar clucked their tongue at you. "We both know that bottle had many more pills in it than that." 

 

Then, their fingers were back down your throat. The second wave of vomit was much easier to coax up than the first, and the third wave of it would be even easier. By the end of it, your throat and sinuses were on fire, and you were bringing up nothing but bile. Somewhere along the way, Valdemar had stopped taunting you and insulting you, filling your head with fear. 

 

"That's it, just keep breathing." They murmured to you, finally withdrawing their hand from your mouth. Their other arm was still locked firmly around you, and you realized that it was the only thing that was keeping you upright at this point. With a start, you realized that the strange noises that you'd been hearing for the past few minutes were coming from you, tiny high-pitched whimpers that punctuated each breath. 

 

Then, you were floating, lighter than a feather. They'd picked you up like you weighed less than nothing, and were carrying you off somewhere. You wanted to ask, but you couldn't quite form the words. 

 

Soon, however, your answer was presented in front of you as Valdemar paused to open the heavy wooden door to a cell set into the side of the operating theater. You knew these cells were used to house victims of the plague as they were being observed by the doctors in the castle, before their eventual death. You knew that once a person was locked in one of these cells, it was unlikely that they would ever walk out of it. You also knew that those cells had been abandoned for years, cleaned out and sanitized after the end of the plague. 

 

Your mind flashed horrible images at you. There were two opposing theories running through your foggy mind. One was that despite their best 'efforts', the Quaestor had not been able to successfully clear your system of enough drugs to ensure your survival. That would mean that you were being placed into one of those cells for further observation, as the drugs mangled your internal organs and left you dying in agony in the near future. The other theory was that you were simply being locked away to starve to death, provided the dehydration didn't get you first. After all, this part of the palace had been disused for quite some time by now, and it was unlikely that anyone was going to bother coming down here to feed you a few times a day. 

 

You weren't sure which was worse, but you were sure that if you were to die, you didn't want it to be down here, in this miserable dank place. Accordingly, as soon as you were dropped onto the sparse cot inside of the cell, you sat up. Or at least, you attempted to. You were so dizzy that you nearly hit the floor, as opposed to standing up. 

 

One of Valdemars hands pushed you onto your back on the bed, hand flat against your chest, pinning you down. The other hand came up to make short work of the straps dangling from the side of the bed, effectively immobilizing you. You shivered from the cold that radiated from their body like rays from the sun. "If you recall, I asked for your cooperation earlier." 

 

Their eyes raked over you once, and they must have obviously seen the fear in your eyes, as they said, "I believe that we managed to avoid the worst outcome. Fear not, dear patient, I highly doubt that your organs will fail in the near future. Pity, I was looking forward to perfecting that antidote. You would've been a perfect specimen." 

 

Well, it would seem that you ruled out the first of the options. It would appear then, that you were going to be left to rot and wither in this cell for the rest of your not-so-natural lifespan, as you watched the Quaestor walk towards the door. As soon as they shut the door, you would be trapped here, until they decided to release you, assuming they ever did. 

 

You were floored when you saw that instead of walking out of the room, they simply closed the door, before taking a few short steps over to the cot you were laying on. You were even more shocked when they actually sat next to you, placing your head in their lap. The apron below your cheek was cold and stank faintly of death, but it was just a hair more comfortable than the thin mattress you lay on. You looked up at them, regarding them with a cautious sort of curiosity. This was out of character for them. You'd seen them rip apart - literally - another doctor here for fewer transgressions than you had committed tonight. 

 

"Now, you're going to spend the night in here. While I do have more important things to do than this, I do suppose that I can stay here until you've fallen asleep." 

 

You murmured something in return, but your speech was so slurred and broken that it was nearly unintelligible. 

 

"We'll be having a little chat some time in the next few days, during which we will discuss what it will take from you to be released from this cell. Until then, I'd advise you get comfortable, as you won't be leaving until you're no longer a threat to yourself." 

 

So it wasn't infinite then, just until you weren't about to kill yourself the moment that you were freed. You weren't sure if this was better or worse. At least if it was until death, there was a reasonable time frame, whether that be a day or a month without someone feeding you. If the Quaestor was intent on you staying alive, you could very well still be trapped in this dungeon years from now. You could fool anyone else into believing you were mentally stable and competent. Anyone who wasn't Valdemar.

 

You knew that they would see right through any of your lies. This was the last thought to float through your head, as your drifted off to the steady rhythm of a hand petting your head. 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, I believe that I have a 'thing' for writing violent, self-injurious and/or suicidal works, especially while drunk. It's only been my pattern for 5+ years at this point. And the writing in second-person perspective. It's effectively my signature. Also, can we go ahead and establish that it seems that all of the Arcana fanfiction that I've written is very much fucked up and only ever seems to happen after one too many shots of cake vodka?
> 
> Ugh, I think that this is perhaps the only author's note that I've really done that goes beyond the basic 'Hey, this is based off X or inspired by Y and FFS, heed the tags!'
> 
> I'm not sure how to feel about people that just spill their life contents into the author's note part of the story, but I'm starting to miss the ambiance of 2005-2012 fanfiction websites. Also, I found I still have a fucking Ficwad account that hasn't been touched in... years. Holy fuck.


End file.
